


The Defector

by mustdefine



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: Crack, F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustdefine/pseuds/mustdefine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aly defects to Russia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Defector

“What do you mean, there’s an American at the gate?”

“I mean there’s an American literally standing outside the gate. You have to see this, Alka. Come on, your computer will survive on its own for a few minutes!” Vika tugged on Aliya’s hand. Aliya sighed and got up, not without a longing glance back at her laptop. 

There was a crowd of Russian gymnasts and divers standing around outside, none of whom apparently had anything better to do at this exact moment even though they generally trained 24/7. Aliya pushed her way through them. “Stand aside, peasants, the queen is h—what the hell?”

*   *   *

Aly Raisman shifted her giant duffel bag from one shoulder to the other and looked uneasily at Round Lake’s big iron gate. It looked like the entrance to Mordor, for God’s sake, why must Russians  _insist_ on making everything all forbidding and creepy? The eerily silent crowd of athletes staring at her between the bars certainly wasn’t helping.

The sea of muscles abruptly parted. A shaft of sunlight descended from heaven to illuminate Aliya Mustafina in all her glory, eyes flashing, porcelain skin glowing, hair rippling in a sudden wind, which was actually kind of random because up until that point the day had been dead still, so that was some weird weather going on right there, like what was up with that, but anyway back to Aliya, who parted her perfect lips and said, “What the hell? Raisman, the fuck are you doing here?”

Aly gulped, momentarily overcome by the awesome display of beauty standing before her. “Uh. Take me to your leader?”

*  *  * 

“You are a USA spy. You come to steal our secrets. Why should we let you stay?”

“I’m not a spy! If you would just let me explain—”

Valentina Rodionenko scowled fiercely. Which was didn’t take much effort, since she was physically incapable of any other expression. “We don’t believe you! Tell us why you come! No lies!” She glared at her husband. Andrei sighed and meekly repeated, “We don’t believe you. Tell us why you come. No lies.” Valentina nodded approvingly and shifted her scowl back to Aly. Outside the Rodionenko’s office, most of the women’s gymnastics team elbowed each other for a better view. They hadn’t seen such an entertaining display from the Rodionenkos since the time Andrei accidentally deleted “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” from Valentina’s DVR.

“Tell us or we ship you right back to America! Tell us! Tell us! Tell us!!!”

“Fine! I can’t point my toes!!”

The Rodionenkos stared at her. “What?” said Andrei.

“Nobody in the entire USA Gymnastics community can teach me to point my toes! I’ve been trying to learn for years and years and no one can help me. I gave up on them and now I want to train with you. So that’s why I’m here. That, and my love for A—” Aly stopped before she said a certain name. “—for, ahh, cold winters,” she finished lamely. “But, um, mostly the toe thing.”

The Rodionenkos thought about it. They also thought about how incredibly, entertainingly upset USAG would be if Russia kept the defector.

“Well,” said Valentina. “That is serious.”

“Serious,” Andrei echoed.

“You will stay for a week. If we like what we see, we will not send you back to America.”

“Oh my god, thank y—”

“Mustafina!” Valentina snapped her fingers at Aliya, who poked her head around the door. “Show Raisman around. You’re in charge of her. Get her some clothes, tell her the rules, wipe her nose and all that.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my time,” Aliya sneered. She thought wistfully of her computer, all warm and faithful and full of her favorite TV shows.

“Tough shit,” Valentina said, pleased to delegate this thankless task to the gymnast she hated above all else for being so successful and winning so many medals in London, like, seriously, leave some for the other Russians. “If she fails to acclimate, I’ll hold you personally responsible and remove you from the competition roster.”

Aliya frowned and considered kicking Valentina in the head. But it was too soon to start a bloody coup. A few more weeks at least until her black market contact came through and the submachine guns were delivered. She snapped her own fingers at Aly. “You. Up. Come with me.”

*  *  *

“This is where we eat. This is where we sleep. This is where we train. And behind you are all the girls who are going to kick your ass if you slow us down, distract us, or defect back to America. Now I will tell you about everyone, because if you don’t know who’s with who there is going to be DRAMA and I’m far too busy to deal with that crap.”

Aly looked at the crowd of juniors and seniors. “Boy, there are a lot of you, aren’t there?”

“Shut it and pay attention, because there’s gonna be a quiz later,” Aliya said, coming to stand by her. But her annoyance faltered when she met Aly’s liquid dark brown chocolate espresso orbs. She had never noticed this before, despite competing in a sport where everyone was half-naked all the time, but Aly was kind of really hot. Aliya was suddenly overcome by an irrational urge to take her right there on the floor. She was only prevented from acting on her impulse by a delicate cough from one of the gymnasts.

“Right,” Aliya said, tearing her eyes from Aly’s. “We’ll start here. You know Komova. Her friends call her Vika. You’re not her friend.”

Aly swallowed.

“Vika’s with Nikita Ignatiev for show and Maria Paseka for when she’s bored. But she’s my main squeeze aside from my laptop. If you touch her, I’ll rip your fucking head off. Got it?”

“Uhh … got it.”

“You know Kseniia Afansyeva. Her friends call her Ksushya. She might be your friend because she’s easy like that.” (Kseniia snorted.) “She’s married, but we don’t hold it against her. That’s Nabieva. She’s with everyone. Don’t let her get you alone.” (Nabs wolf-whistled. Aly blushed.) “Dementyeva’s got a boy back home and a girl here. Inshina’s stringing along half the junior men’s team. Polyan’s crazy, don’t touch her. Kharenkova and Baturina are totally doing it—oh, don’t even try denying it, you two—and Shelgunova’s the one openly undressing you with her eyes, although she has some weird arrangement with Tipayeva and Kuzmina that nobody talks about. There’s a couple girls over there that I can’t be bothered to name. Oh, and this over here is our token normal. Her name’s Belokobylskaya.”

“Buh,” said Aly.

“No, Belokobylskaya,” Aliya said. “Now, ready for that quiz? Oh shit, guys, she’s falling over, what is even happening right now.”

“I think you overloaded her brain.”

“Probably not difficult.”

“Let’s draw a mustache on her.”

“Quiet, everyone,” Aliya commanded. She sighed, then bent and lifted Aly in a fireman’s carry, noticing in passing how the American was soft and firm in all the right places. This was going to be an extremely long week.

*  *  *

Adjusting to training in Russia was not easy for Aly. Every five minutes, someone shouted, “Raisman, point your toes!” When she wasn’t being berated by various coaches or doing calisthenics as punishment for being flat-footed, Aly kept mumbling the names of all the gymnasts to herself. 

“Nabs, avoid. Vika, not friend. Demy, umm, uh, come back to that one. Wait, who was crazy? God, why didn’t I take notes?”

“Raisman! Quit talking to yourself and point your toes!”

Next to Aliya on bars, Vika grunted, “Your girl’s a little thick, isn’t she?”

“Not my girl.”

“Wants to be. She follows you around like a puppy.” The blonde gymnast grinned. “That’s a nice piece of ass, Mustafa. Better claim it before someone  _nabs_  it, know what I mean?”

“You’re hilarious, Vikuska. Fake an injury and meet me in the supply closet so we can bang.”

“Only if Raisman comes too!”

“Fuck you.”

Aly came panting up. “Someone called me?”

Across the gym, Evgeny shouted in exasperation, “Get back on the floor! And point your toes!!”

*  *  *

“OK, I made flash cards and then I made a spreadsheet and  _then_  I made a flowchart. I think I got this.”

“You’re sure? You kind of have the crazy eyes right now.”

“I’m sure. OK. OK. Here goes. Ballerina and Karen are together. Shelly made a pass at me this morning which was kind of weird because she’s like five, but I think that one redheaded swimmer is into her. Afan is married even though no one’s ever seen her husband. You have a harem and your first love is your computer. I’m still not friends with Vika. And there’s someone named Bella-something that I will never, ever be able to pronounce.”

“That’s terrible. Drop and give me thirty.”

“I would do anything for you.”

“Yeah, well, how about thirty push-ups.”

“Can I take you to a movie later?”

“We live in the middle of nowhere, you adorable clown.”

“Can I touch your hair?”

” … fine, if you’ll shut up.”

*  *  *

“Well? How’s she doing?”

Aliya propped her feet on Valentina’s desk. “Splendidly.”

Valentina’s perma-scowl deepened. “Feet off the desk, Queen Musty. And has she learned our ways?”

Aliya removed her feet and meditated for a moment upon her impending militarized takeover of Round Lake. Soon she would rule with an iron fist. “If you mean has she developed a killer bitchface and the ability to cry at the drop of a hat, then yes. She has learned our ways.”

“We will see. She’ll compete in the monthly intra-squad competition this Saturday. If she doesn’t perform well, we’ll pack her off to America.” Valentina leaned forward, an ugly light in her eyes. “And you’ll go home. How does that sound?”

“Bitch, please, I live for this shit. Bring it.”

*   *   *

“Raisman! Your ass is mine for the next hour. We need to train—whoa, what the crap?” Aliya stopped just inside Aly’s door. Papers littered the desk and floor. Permanent marker covered the walls. Aly was standing on the bed filling in some of the last blank wall space. Names. She was writing names.

“Oh my god,” Aliya said slowly. “This is your flowchart?”

Aly cast a wild-eyed glance at her and continued scribbling frantically, back and shoulder muscles working in a distractingly hot way. She was wearing nothing but a sports bra and dance shorts and random streaks of marker. “It’s not finished yet! It’s not perfect! But it’s going to be, I swear it, I’m going to learn ALL the names and I’m going to do super awesome in the intra-squad and I’m going to make you proud, I promise.”

Aliya surveyed the wall of crazy with her hands on her hips. She watched the tiny hot American toiling away faithfully just as she’d been doing in the gym for the last week, motivated by Aliya’s approval and the hope of acquiring a different form of artistry. Endearing, all of it. Even the Ice Queen was not immune to such devotion. And hell, she could always use another member in her harem, especially for the coup. She came to a decision.

“Hang on. You missed a spot.” Aliya climbed onto the bed. She found “Алия́ Муста́фина” in the middle of the spiderweb of names. It was connected to Vika, Pavel, several other names, and a sketch of a laptop. She drew another line from herself to a blank spot. And in that spot, she wrote one more name.

Aly craned her neck as Aliya sat down beside her on the bed. “What? But that’s my … oh.”

Aliya pushed her down and climbed on top of her. “If there’s one name I want you to remember, it’s mine.” She kissed Aly roughly, tasting the girl’s surprise. Aliya slid her hands slowly over chiseled abs, kissed the sensitive skin under Aly’s jaw, felt the girl’s pulse begin to race. 

“Don’t we have to work out?” Aly stammered.

“Like I said, you belong to me for an hour,” Aliya purred. “I’m sure I can come up with  _some_ sort of workout for you.” She dipped her head and busied herself mapping her name onto curves and valleys. 

Long, exquisite minutes later, an exclamation broke the near-silence.

“Damn it, Raisman!”

“What?”

“Point your freaking toes!!”


End file.
